Time seems to come to a standstill. The space around us is palpable and thick with an overwrought tension. The bathroom suddenly feels too small—the air stifling—and I almost can’t breathe as I wait for him to say something. Anything.

“Fuck it,” he suddenly grunts, pushing off from the doorjamb. And he launches at me, his hands grasping my face as his lips crash against mine in a kiss so full of desperation it’s both sexy as hell and heartbreaking at the same time because he needs me to kiss him, like he needs air, but I’m momentarily frozen, deliberating whether or not this is a terrible idea.

Of course it’s a terrible idea—I can confirm that without a doubt—but before I can make yet another mistake and allow him to get away, I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. Meeting his tongue with mine, I’m rewarded with a raw, animalistic groan, one that tumbles into our kiss and only turns me on even more than I am already. His hands move down, pushing my shirt off my shoulders before reaching my waist and grasping me low on my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh almost to the point of pain.

I gasp when he effortlessly lifts me up onto the vanity. Our toothbrushes, my makeup, his cologne, everything goes tumbling, crashing loudly to the tile, and I pull back from his kiss, startled by the sound as it echoes through the bathroom. I take the opportunity to try to catch my breath, meeting Harley’s hooded eyes watching me so intently, his lips swollen, his cheeks flushed, and I actually can’t believe this is happening.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, his fingers dancing over the waistband of my panties.

I don’t know. Is this okay? Do I want this? It’s now or never.

I graze my teeth over my bottom lip painfully, looking between his eyes and finding something in his gaze I hadn’t been expecting, nor prepared to see in Harley Shaw. He’s scared. Or nervous. I can’t quite tell, but it’s an emotion I’ve definitely never seen in him before. I watch as his shoulders rise and fall with every rushed breath, and I find myself reaching out, placing a hand over the pirate ship inked into the center of his chest, tracing the outline of the violent waves crashing around it with my fingertip. I’m shocked at the feel of his heart racing just as hard as mine, and for some reason I take some solace in that.

“Murph?”

I snap my gaze up, once again meeting his eyes, and I exhale the trembling breath I’d been holding, my hand still placed against his heart.

“Can you call me Alice? Please?” I whisper, hoping I don’t sound as needy and pathetic as I think I sound.

The ghost of a familiar smile, one I haven’t seen in a long time, tugs at his lips as he sighs my name in the most incredible way, like the soft tune of a beautiful melody. “Alice …”